


Still Fighting It

by feeisamarshmallow



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Just like life really, Slice of Life, Some Humor, Some angst, Songfic, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24271762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeisamarshmallow/pseuds/feeisamarshmallow
Summary: "The years go on and we’re still fighting it. And you’re so much like me, I’m sorry." - Ben FoldsOr, ten moments throughout Jake & Mac Peralta’s lives.
Relationships: Jake Peralta & McClane "Mac" Peralta, Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 29
Kudos: 50





	Still Fighting It

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [@suspended-in-gaffa](https://suspended-in-gaffa.tumblr.com/) for the impeccable beta. 
> 
> Thanks also to [@kamelea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamelea/pseuds/kamelea) who encouraged me to write this, [@amyscascadingtabs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyscascadingtabs/pseuds/amyscascadingtabs) who immediately pointed me towards the episode dialogue I was looking for while writing this, and [@4drinkamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/4drinkamy/pseuds/4drinkamy), who let me borrow the nickname "Mac Attack". 
> 
> Inspired by the song [Still Fighting It by Ben Folds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqPwR39VMh0), which I think is one of the most poignant songs about growing up to ever be written.

###  _Good morning, son, I am a bird wearing a brown polyester shirt_ | November 2020

When Jake hears Mac fussing, he rolls over to check his phone. It’s just after 6:30am and the light in their bedroom is yellow-grey, illuminating the clothes discarded on the floor, the baby books piled against the wall, and Mac shifting in his bassinet. Amy’s still fast asleep next to him; tendrils of her hair have come loose from her bun and are plastered against her cheek. Jake pulls himself out of bed, puts on his glasses, and runs a hand through the curls standing up straight on his head.

Mac is soft and warm against Jake’s chest, simultaneously both bigger and smaller than Jake always expects. He’s crying a cranky, newborn whimper and Jake shushes him, bouncing up and down as he softly shuts the door. The rising sun is streaming through the crack between the apartment buildings opposite their balcony so that it looks like a painting. Jake opens the curtains and stands to take in the sight. He shifts Mac in his arms so Mac can see, too, even though he’s only a few days old and can’t yet appreciate a sunset. But the intensity of the rays must catch Mac’s eye, because he quiets down, kicking against the fabric of Jake’s t-shirt.

###  _You want a Coke? Maybe some fries? The roast beef combo's only nine ninety five_ | July 2024 

“Daddy, why do seagulls like to eat fries?”

Mac points up at three seagulls circling above their heads, taking turns diving and pulling fries out of the overflowing trash. Jake can hear them squawking over the general din of the boardwalk: waves crashing on the shore, the kids squealing as they run down the beach, and dogs barking at each other.

“Probably the same reasons you like fries.” Jake shifts his gaze back to his son.

Mac is swinging his legs as they sit on a bench, still far too short at almost four years old to touch the ground. Little pieces of sand fall off his curls as he rocks back and forth, catching in the sunlight before the breeze sweeps them away.

Mac giggles, scrunching up his nose just like Amy does. “Because they taste so good!”

“That’s right.” Jake takes a fry himself from the greasy paper container balanced on his legs. What he really wants is a swig of sugary soda to wash it down, but he’s trying to model healthy eating for Mac. (Fries are potatoes so they count as healthy).

“Can I have some more?”

“I’ll give you three more. We’re almost finished.” He tips the container to show Mac.

Mac turns his full attention to the empty container, his brow furrowing like he’s working out how the fries are made, or digested, or maybe how the waxy red-and-white striped containers are manufactured.

“We have to save some for Mommy when she finishes work.” He says to Jake solemnly.

“I don’t know that Mommy will want cold fries, Mac Attack.”

“She will.” He nods to himself, assured.

Jake stifles a laugh.

“Okay, we’ll bring the last ones to Mommy at the precinct on the way home. How does that sound?”

“Good.” Mac pauses, distracted by a woman in neon leggings roller-skating past.

Jake wonders if she buys her leggings at the flea market around the corner from their apartment, it’s the only place he’s ever seen leggings that bright. Jake’s thinking that maybe the flea market would be a fun destination for his next father-son outing when Mac speaks again, raising his voice a little to get his Dad’s attention.

“Daddy how do they make the fry containers?”

###  _But it's okay, you don't have to pay. I've got all the change_ | August 2026

“I have 75 cents, that means I can get three big candies or seven and a half small ones. But they don’t sell half ones, so I’d only get seven. You only have 50 cents from Daddy, I have more because I’m using one of my own quarters so you can’t have as much candy as me.”

Mac has already lost Willa’s attention. He has a penchant for over-explaining things to his baby sister, who at three, is just starting to realize she can run away to avoid Mac’s nonstop talking. Willa makes her escape down the next aisle over in the bodega. Or rather, corner store. Jake supposes they’re not called bodegas in upstate New York, where Amy’s new boss at the 76 has so graciously allowed them to vacation in his lakeside cabin. The clerk at the counter smiles over his newspaper, his reading glasses balanced on his nose, and Jake wonders where he still finds a newspaper to read.

Jake leaves Mac monologuing in the penny candy aisle and follows Willa around the corner.

“Willa come back here.”

Willa ignores him, her ponytail bobbing up and down as she pulls chip containers off the shelves. Willa looks like Mac—the same curly chestnut hair and serious brown eyes—but she’s his opposite in every way that counts. Mac is talkative; Willa is near-silent unless engaged one-on-one. Mac is deeply thoughtful; Willa is more impulsive.

“Will, you can’t grab things off the shelf. You can choose some candy and then we’re going to meet Mommy back at the cabin.”

Willa ignores him, and starts rearranging Pringle cans into a pattern on the dusty tile floor. The aisle over, Mac is still talking like Jake is listening, so Jake throws out the odd affirmative noise.

“Can I put these back on the shelf?” Willa keeps ignoring him, singularly focused on arranging pringles cans.

Part of Jake completely understands the urge to categorize the surroundings so neatly—it’s what Jake does every time he enters a crime scene. It’s how, even as Jake has been trying to corral his two active children in this very nice man’s smalltown store, he’s been classifying the differences between this store and his neighbourhood bodega. (Here the makings of s’mores are nicely grouped together. Bodegas are more likely to have spanish candy bars. Here there is ammunition for sale behind the counter. Their bodega in Brooklyn also sells falafels.)

After a few tries to grab Willa’s attention, Jake starts putting the Pringles cans back on the shelves, which prompts Willa to start bawling. The man behind the counter is no longer giving them a nice look.

Jake is still trying to shush Willa when Mac comes around the corner, his candy choices in a paper bag—he must have bought them while Jake was busy. Mac crouches down, lays his paper bag on the floor, and starts lining up his candy in a pattern. Almost immediately, Willa quiets down and joins her brother. Two identical curly-haired kids, sit cross-legged in the chip aisle, making patterns with their candy. Jake hopes the clerk doesn’t mind if they stay for a couple minutes more.

###  _Everybody knows it hurts to grow up. And everybody does - it's so weird to be back here_ | September 2030

Jake is on his feet watching his son race down the court at PS 374. It’s a hot September evening, and the air conditioning is doing little to cool down the elementary school gym. Jake can see the felt pennants moving lazily in the air current, but the cool air isn’t reaching the spectators on the bleachers below.

There’s no doubt Mac is the best player on his youth basketball team. He’s short but he’s nimble, like Nate Robinson. He takes the ball into the corner, pivots, fakes a shot, and then passes to his friend Noa, who easily makes the basket.

Jake knows it’s just house league basketball, and he’s not about to be one of those parents who are overly invested in their kid’s sports team, but Mac’s skill at basketball does give him a sense of immense pride.

Jake is a fan of many sports, but basketball is his favourite. It’s something about the squeak of shoes on the waxy floor, or maybe the breakneck pace of the game, or the drama of 3-pointers (not that 10 year-olds can make 3-pointers yet or anything). Jake grew up watching his beloved Knicks, and to see Mac love—and excel—at something Jake also loves is the best feeling.

The momentum has shifted, and the other team takes the ball into Mac’s team’s end. Jake looks away for a minute to check his phone—he wants to be the kind of father that can give his kid undivided attention, but the reality of being a detective means he’s always checking his notifications. When he looks back up, a fray has erupted on the floor.

Jake immediately searches for Mac’s distinctive brown curls among the children, and when he can’t find them, his heart drops. All the pride he was feeling gives way to a deep fear, a kind he’s only known since becoming a father.

The ref clears the kids out until only one is left, lying on the ground cradling his arm. He’s short and slimmer than the others, with curly hair Jake could recognize from a mile away. Jake is off the bleachers in a second, joining the coach running onto the court.

“Hey buddy, just stay still for a sec. Is it your arm?”

Mac has tear trails running down his face, and it takes everything in Jake to keep it together.

“It’ll be okay. Did you hit your head?”

“No it’s my arm.” Mac trails off into a sob at the end, and Jake’s heart lurches.

“Do you think you can get up and off the court if I help you?” Jake puts his hand on his son’s shoulder.

Mac nods. Together with his coach, Jake helps Mac up and into the boy’s change room. Mac’s tough—tougher than Jake—and by the time they get him sitting, an improvised sling immobilizing his wrist, he’s dried the tears off his face.

Later, when they’re waiting in the ER, Mac lifts his head from where he’s been laying it on Jake’s shoulder.

“Daddy, I need to tell you something.” Mac shifts back and forth on the hard plastic seats.

“Mmm? You can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I…” Mac starts and then trails off. Jake stays silent. The call of the PA and a baby crying seem to increase in volume in the absence of his voice. Mac takes a deep breath and starts again.

“I don’t wanna play basketball anymore,” he finally blurts out.

Jake is stunned for a second. Mac turns to look at him with red-rimmed eyes. He looks so distressed and Jake is suddenly not sure whether that’s because of his broken wrist or his admission that he doesn’t want to play ball.

“I know it’s scary to get hurt, and I totally understand if you don’t want to play anymore, but really it’s rare to break your wrist. I’ve only broken bones a couple of times, and you know how clumsy I am.”

Jake’s hoping for a smile, but Mac shakes his head and furrows his brow. He’s been making the same face since he was a baby.

“It’s not ‘cause of my arm, Daddy. I just don’t really like basketball?” He says it like a question.

“Oh.” Jake wants to have a better response, but he’s tired and worried and quite frankly, surprised. Mac is so good at basketball. He loves it. He has a poster of the Knicks' Rakim Sergei above his bed.

“I think I actually like painting better. I’m sorry.”

Jake watches a nurse disappear behind a set of doors and thinks about the poster of the Rakim Sergei above Mac’s bed, right next to a poster reprint of Matisse’s _L’Atelier Rouge_. He thinks of a response a beat too late.

“You don’t have to be sorry, bud. Painting is great. I love your paintings.”

Mac pulls away from Jake’s hand that’s wrapped around his shoulders. “But you love basketball. And I’m so good at it. How come I don’t like it?”

“Yeah I do love basketball, but do you know what I love more?”

“What?”

“You.”

Mac still looks upset. He reaches out his good hand to run his fingers along the arm of the chair.

“You don’t have to like everything you’re good at.” Jake looks at Mac, even if he’s avoiding eye contact. “You’re good at almost everything, Mac. You don’t ever have to play basketball again. You can paint, and I’ll even paint with you if you want.”

“Well of course I’ll finish this season.” Mac says like it’s a given, like every 10-year would have the commitment to stick it out playing a sport he didn’t like. “I can’t let down my team. But next year, I think I just want to paint.”

###  _Let me tell you what, the years go on and we're still fighting it_ | February 2036

“Just stop making jokes, for once!” Mac raises his voice, which is rare. Jake thinks Mac is going to walk out of their apartment, but instead he stops at the door, crosses his arms, and stands his ground.

Something in Jake short-circuits. His son never talks back to him, never yells. That’s more Willa, and even she’s more likely to freeze Jake out than to raise her voice. Jake walks around the kitchen counter and stands opposite Mac in the apartment hallway.

“You’re telling me I shouldn’t pursue a late career-change into comedy?” Jake gives Mac a goofy smile.

Immediately Jake knows he’s said the wrong thing. Mac takes a breath, and Jake wonders if Mac is really going to yell. It’s so out of character even if 15-year old Mac has been getting progressively moodier.

But Mac just grabs his baseball cap from the hooks by the door and leaves, but not before he says, “Sometimes I think you make jokes so you don’t actually have to hear me.”

Jake stands in the hallway for a good ten minutes before he takes a few steps into the living room area and collapses on the couch. Amy has gone in for a rare morning of Saturday work, dropping Willa off at swimming lessons on her way, so the apartment is dead silent.

Jake reaches out for the remote, absentmindedly, but he doesn’t turn the TV on, instead compulsively running his hands along the buttons. How could Mac believe that Jake doesn’t want to listen to him?

What if he isn’t listening to Mac? What if he’s making Mac feel just as crappy as his own father made him feel?

Next to the TV hangs one of Mac’s paintings. It’s bright and abstract: a stick finger outlined with broad swaths of black acrylic paint on a bold yellow-and-red background. Mac tried to explain what it meant, but Jake never really understood. Come to think of it, he thinks he just made a joke about how Mac’s stick figures were better than his. Usually Jake smiles when he looks at Mac’s paintings, but today he feels a tear slip down his cheek.

###  _Twenty years from now maybe we'll both sit down and have a few beers_ | June 2040

It’s still a novelty to be able to share a beer with his son, Jake thinks as he watches condensation run down the sides of their glass bottles. They’re sitting on the patio at a bar in Harlem, just around the corner from Mac’s apartment. The classical-fusion hip hop and wrought iron tables are far too hipster for Jake to feel comfortable, although Mac would tell him that no one says hipster anymore.

New York City is finally coming out the other end of a week-long heat wave. Mac has shaved all his hair off; it reminds Jake of the haircuts they made all the academy recruits wear back almost 40 years ago at this point.

“I had the same haircut at your age.”

Mac laughs, his nose scrunching up the same way he’s laughed since he was a little kid. He may have Jake’s old haircut, but the cut-off corduroy shorts, the tight, striped tank, and the arm full of beaded bracelets are distinctly Mac.

“Of course I was at the police academy. You’re about to be the only sophomore to be chosen for the year end art show.”

Mac smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. Jake can tell something is wrong. Mac should be explaining the philosophy of the art show in great detail. He should be reminding Jake of the date over and over so Jake doesn’t forget.

Mac takes a sip of the beer, and then looks Jake in the eye. Mac has gained a newfound confidence since starting college. He’s always been self-assured and well-spoken, but as a kid he also had a tendency to put a need to please others over everything else.

But now, Jake is sure Mac is about to tell him something important. Mac puts down the beer bottle, and wipes sweat from his forehead. Somewhere in the distance a car alarm goes off, piercing through the general din of Manhattan.

“I’m, well, I’m dating someone,” Mac starts. “You’ll meet them when you come to the show. And that’s what I want to tell you. Tay is nonbinary, so they/them pronouns. Anyways, I don’t want you and Mom to be weird about it. So I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

Mac gives a little nod to himself, and then takes a sip of his beer.

There are a million thoughts running through Jake’s head. Does this mean Mac is also coming out to him? As bi? Or pan? Do the kids even use those labels these days? Did Jake ever tell Mac he’s pretty sure that’s he is kinda bisexual?

Did Mac really not trust him and Amy to be cool with Tay? Who is Tay and how long has Mac known them?

But mostly Jake can only focus on one thing.

“I knew it!” He raises his voice a little too loud, and the couple sitting behind Mac look over at them.

“You, what?” Mac raises his eyebrows, playing with his beaded bracelets absentmindedly.

“Every time I’ve seen you, you’re texting someone. You only came home for one day on Thanksgiving—usually you come home for the whole weekend. Plus Willa gave it away the other day.” Jake shrugs.

“Willa! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted her.” Mac doesn’t seem worried anymore. His features have relaxed, even as he’s squinting a bit in the sun.

“You should know by now, Willa can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

“Honestly I should’ve known with a detective for a father.”

“Two more years and it’ll be ‘retired detective’.”

“Great, then you’ll just get bored and spend even more time ‘solving cases’ about my life.” Mac makes quotes with his fingers.

“But you don’t have to worry about art theft. If anyone ever steals your paintings, I’m on the case. But tell me more about this prestigious year-end showcase.”

The back-and-forth feels so natural. Jake thinks of his own father, and the fraught relationship they had until Roger’s death. Sometime he’ll broach the subject of why Mac was worried in the first place, but right now he’s just happy to be sharing a beer with his son on a beautiful summer day.

“Okay, so,” Mac says. “Each year the school votes on the theme. This year it was ‘Migration’. So you know the acrylic collages I was working on? The ones with pictures of Nana Karen and Great-Nana Esther and Abuelita and Abuelo Santiago. With the maps where I trace the journeys that brought them all to New York…”

###  _And I can tell you about today and how I picked you up and everything changed_ | December 2043

The snow is coming down heavy and wet on the fire escape outside their window. It’s dark already, even though it’s not late, and Jake marvels at how his children have grown up so fast.

Their dinner table feels full because Mac and Willa aren’t kids anymore; they’re adults in their own right. Tomorrow night they’ll start lighting the candles for Hanukkah, but tonight they’ve just naturally gathered around the table after dinner. Amy has put out the Christmas decorations in the centre of the table, candles and a bowl of gold-painted pinecones.

Directly across from Jake, Willa plays with the hair elastic wound around her wrist, listening to Mac talk, but not really paying attention. With her shoulder-length hair and dark brown eyes framed with a touch of makeup, Willa reminds Jake of a young Amy when they first met at the Nine Nine. She has her mom’s build, that same purposeful stride. But while neither him nor Amy were particularly good athletes, Willa is on a swimming scholarship at the University of Michigan. (Jake is sorry to say that both Willa’s inconsistent grades and her messy room are much like his own).

Like always, Willa’s quiet nature and singular focus is overshadowed by Mac’s intensity. Mac’s sitting next to Willa, across from Jake, and excitedly explaining his term-end project. It seems like just a year ago Mac was a talkative toddler, but now he’s only one year away from finishing his art undergraduate degree.

Amy joins them with mugs of hot chocolate and their tablet, and before they know it, they’re looking through old photos. Jake looks at his younger self standing next to Amy in a hospital bed. He looks exhausted, terrified, and exhilarated. His hair is fuller than it is now, and there’s no grey visible in the photo. Mac is so tiny. Jake remembers he was a big baby—9 pounds—with almost comically chubby cheeks, but in the photo he seems impossibly small when compared to the son sitting across from Jake.

Amy moves to swipe to the next photo, but Jake puts his hand on her wrist to stop her.

“Have we ever told you the story of your birth, Mac?”

Willa and Mac groan and roll their eyes good-naturedly.

“Yes Dad, like a million times,” Mac says.

Mac picks up his mug and takes a sip while Jake launches into the story. Willa interrupts when Jake forgets to mention how Sergeant Peanut stopped to poop on the street as Jake raced to Amy’s side. That line used to make Willa and Mac collapse into giggles when they were kids.

Mac stays silent until the end, after Jake has recounted the ambulance ride the three of them took to the hospital.

“I still can’t believe you named me after _Die Hard_.” Mac shakes his head, smiling.

“ _Die Hard_ is a classic!” Jake feigns outrage, but the routine of their exchange makes him smile despite his best efforts.

###  _It was pain, sunny days and rain. I knew you'd feel the same things_ | October 2047

Mac calls him sobbing as Jake is exiting the subway. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Jake jogs up the last few stairs, steps out of the flow of people and plugs one ear to block out the wind. Dried leaves blow around in an eddy by his feet. 

Mac’s voice is choked and Jake can barely understand him. “Noa’s dead.” 

Jake almost can’t comprehend what he’s just heard and slumps down on a bench by the subway entrance. 

“Hey hey, Mac, it’s okay.” But it’s not okay, and Jake has no words to express how he feels. It feels cruel that it’s such a beautiful fall day—all blue skies and crisp air—and one of Mac’s closest friends has just unexpectedly died. 

Jake can hear Mac continue to cry on the other end of the phone, and he talks just to fill the dead air. 

“I’ll come right away. I’ll—you just stay wherever you are. Where are you?” 

“I’m at—at home.” 

“Is Tay there?” 

Mac hiccups and swallows a sob, “Still in DC for that artist fellowship.” 

“Okay, okay.” Jake’s already making a plan, but he can’t help also thinking about his memories of Mac’s childhood best friend. Even after Mac quit basketball, he and Noa stayed friends. “I have to get back on the subway. Do you want me to stay talking to you for a minute, or do you want me to come right over?”

“I just want you here, Dad.” 

“It’ll take like half an hour. Will you be okay until then?” 

“Just get here as quick as you can.” 

Jake turns around and re-enters the station. He catches the subway across the East River and up to Mac’s Harlem apartment. He watches people file in and out of the train but he doesn’t quite feel like he’s there. He thinks about Noa, and the unlikely friendship he maintained with Mac, even as Noa joined his father’s successful electrician business and Mac went on to Art College. Noa is, was, a big guy—tall and muscular. Irish on his father’s side and Cuban on his mother’s. It seems impossible that he’s not here anymore. 

The elderly lady next to Jake gets off at the next stop and is replaced by a young NYPD Officer. His name is Li, Jake reads on his lapel, and that feels like an enormous coincidence. Jake thinks of another Li he knew, an Academy friend, who died a year after they graduated. It’s just a coincidence, but it makes Jake shiver all the same. 

He gets off five stops later, and after a short walk, climbs the stairs to the five-storey walk-up Mac rents with Tay and a roommate. He’s about to knock Mac’s door when the door swings open and Mac rushes into Jake’s arms. 

Jake walks them into the hall of Mac’s apartment. When Mac was a kid, it was so easy to cheer him up. But there’s nothing Jake can say now to make it better, and so he doesn’t say anything as he wraps Mac in a hug.

###  _You'll try and try and one day you'll fly away from me_ | April 2049

“I’m scared, Dad.” Mac turns to face Jake in the dim community centre storage room. There weren’t enough chairs at Mac and Tay’s rehearsal dinner and somehow the job landed in Mac and Jake’s laps.

“Getting married is scary.” Jake’s voice is muffled from behind a pile of plastic folding tables. “I was terrified when I got married to your mom, although that might have been because there was a bomb at the wedding.”

Mac sets down a box of deflated dodgeballs and laughs. His exhale blows around the dislodged dust. “Do you realize how much your life sounds like a movie sometimes?”

“Literally my life’s goal,” comes Jake’s voice.

Mac’s lips upturn as he sits on the discarded box.

“I know I want to be with Tay,” Mac says. “They’re so smart and supportive and a genius artist. I know that they’re the person I want to spend my life with. But sometimes I still just feel like I’m going to die alone. It’ll just be me and my art, forever.”

“I know that feeling.” Jake pops up from behind the tables. He’s a few feet across from Mac, trying to clear a path to the stacks of extra chairs at the back of the storage room. Mac gives Jake an incredulous look.

“I do,” he reiterates. “I still feel like that some days, but it’s not true, and you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because your mom and I keep choosing to love each other and work it out together.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out with Tay? What if we can’t work it out?” Mac’s voice is quiet, and it makes him sound young again.

“Then it doesn’t work out. That happens, but you can’t let it stop you from trying.” Jake leans against the stack of tables.

“I just want to be able to plan it,” Mac says, breaking eye contact and pretending that there’s something interesting in the stack of boxes around his feet.

“You sound exactly like your mother. She had her whole life mapped out, but life doesn’t work that way.”

“What happened to it?”

“Well I went to prison.”

“Oh, yeah.”

There’s a pause. Like neither of them know how to react. Then Mac starts laughing, quietly at first and then building until both him and Jake are guffawing in the storage closet at the North Harlem Community Centre.

“See your life is so much like a movie it’s ridiculous.”

“If my life were a movie I think I’d be having this touching conversation in a better setting than a dusty closet.”

After a minute, Jake collects himself and shimmies his way back to the stack of chairs, handing them one by one to Mac. Mac opens the door to the closet, and the fluorescent light from the hallway comes pouring in.

###  _Everybody knows it sucks to grow up. And everybody does - it's so weird to be back here_ | March 2051

When Jake holds his grandson, it’s like muscle memory.

“Mateo Jacob Peralta.” Mac says as Tay hands their newborn to Jake. Tay is leaned back against the hospital pillow, posture weak, but their face is glowing.

Jake immediately remembers how Mac felt. Warm and soft. So small. Curious eyes even at a few days old. But now Mac is standing by Jake’s shoulder, 31 years old, with the exhausted, exhilarated look of a brand-new father.

“We think he looks like you.” Mac whispers, even though Tay is awake in their hospital bed, and so is little Mateo in Jake’s arms.

Mateo does have those brown eyes (caramel, hella disarming Jake adds), but his wispy hair is more reddish brown, like Tay’s. And maybe Jake is biased, but holding Mateo just feels like holding baby Mac both 30 seconds and 30 lifetimes ago.

“Do you want to hold him?” Jake turns to his wife. Amy’s hair has more grey streaks than brown in it now, which is more than Jake can say for his own head full of grey hair. Amy has wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth, and veins on her hands as she reaches out to take Mateo.

Jake feels a sudden flash of emotion in his chest. Mateo is perfect. And the world outside the four walls of this hospital room is not. He knows exactly what Mac and Mateo will go through, and he doesn’t know anything at all. Mateo makes a soft newborn sound, and his eyes fixate on Jake. Brown like Jake’s, and like Amy’s. Brown like Karen’s—Rest in Peace—and like Mac’s, and like Tay’s.

###  _And you're so much like me, I'm sorry_ | May 2067

It’s a sunny day and Jake is sitting on a bench in Prospect Park. The leaves are finally out in full, and Jake relishes the sun warming up his bones. He never thought he’d become one of those old men who sat in the park feeding the pigeons, but here he is. It took most of his 86 years of life and one hip replacement, but Jake finally enjoys sitting with his thoughts. At least when he can also feed the birds to keep his hands busy.

He tosses some bird seed at the flock of pigeons that have formed around him, thinking about _Die Hard_ which makes him think of Mac. Jake’s sending him a message, telling Mac they should meet for coffee sometime soon, when suddenly Jake just knows: He’s not going to be here much longer.

He feels a strange sense of peace as a leaf drifts down and settles on the bench next to him. It’s a contentment he hasn’t felt since Amy passed a year and a half ago.

Mac texts him back and agrees to meet next week, and then Jake is crying. It feels weird to feel so calm while tears stream down his cheeks. The sun is shining down and a new father walks past with his toddler.

He thinks about it all. The acute pain of Amy’s death, and the slow pain of watching his son struggle with the same things he did: Learning that you can’t please everyone. Being vulnerable in relationships. Figuring out any semblance of a path in this life.

He picks one up a leaf from the bench and examines it. It’s so delicate, with veins that spiral out from the centre stem, diverging and diverging from the same path. Mateo is 16 now. He’s everything and nothing like Mac, just like Mac is everything and nothing like Jake.

The pigeons squabble by his feet and Jake feels jubilant and he feels remorse. But he knows one thing. The leaves on this tree will come out next year even when he’s not sitting on this bench. And he wouldn’t go back and change a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Willa Esther Peralta is named in honour of Amy's favourite puzzle master, Will Shortz. It only seemed fair after they named their firstborn after Die Hard. (In my mind, Mac's full name is McClane Santiago Peralta). 
> 
> I have no idea what the world will look in 50 years, so I tried to avoid describing it too much. I did invent the genre of "classical-fusion hip-hop". I also like to think the world will be way more understanding of gender beyond the binary :) Everything else is roughly accurate, so please tell me if anything rings false—I've only been to NYC once in my life.
> 
> Some fun facts:
> 
>   * It's implied that Mac attended City College of New York in their [visual arts program](https://art-at-ccny.com/art/)
>   * Willa wins a swimming scholarship at the University of Michigan, [which is currently ranked 6th](https://www.collegefactual.com/rankings/sports/swimming-women/), at least according to the website I read
>   * [Nate Robinson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nate_Robinson) is 5'9" and played basketball for the New York Knicks between 2005-2010. [I also got distracted by the inconsistency in writing Jake's favourite basketball teams.](https://feeisamarshmallow.tumblr.com/post/618288521430564864/jake-and-basketball)
>   * [L'Atelier Rouge by Henri Matisse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%27Atelier_Rouge#/media/File:Atelier_rouge_matisse_1.jpg) is on exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. The Art History major in Amy almost certainly took her kids there.
> 

> 
> Anyways, tell me what you think. Or come say hi on tumblr: [@feeisamarshmallow.](https://feeisamarshmallow.tumblr.com/)


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